The Case of the Murdered Merchant
by SaltwaterGarden
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson embark upon a murder case involving one of the wealthiest families in Britain. However, when money is involved, the police can easily be made to keep their mouths shut. Conclusive proof needs to be found, and fast.
1. Chapter 1

Many times, when attempting to record the adventures of my friend and companion Sherlock Holmes, I have focused upon cases in which my friend's deductive powers helped in clearing up the mystery. However, it is inevitable that with the limited cataloguing abilities of the police department of London, there will be times when even Mr. Holmes's impressive powers of reasoning cannot guarantee that the criminal shall see justice. This is such a case—I shall refer to it henceforth as the Case of The Murdered Merchant.

This story in particular takes place shortly after my recording of the Sign Of Four (the case, in fact, that led me to meet my lovely wife, Mary). The weather as uncommonly cool for summer, and though the overlaying clouds seemed to hint at rain, they could not bring themselves to release any water other than a light fog that draped the Thames in the morning.

Since I had been given the oppurtunity in recent weeks to hire a most proficient and competent assistant to help me with the doctor's practice that I own, I had come to have rather too much free time, and had taken to calling on Holmes at his home on Baker Street in the after-noon, when Mary went to tea with her aunt.

Even from outside Holmes's residence on Baker Street, I could hear a heated discussion going on inside. I recognized the voice of my friend and also one that may have conceivably belonged to one Inspector Lestrade, a member of Scotland Yard with whom Holmes and I had previously collaborated in his investigations. Both parties sounded increasingly agitated, and as it was an unseasonably nasty day, it occurred to me that perhaps the weather might have something to do with their poor humor. I sought to put an end to their argument as soon as possible, for on many an occasion my friend has succeeded in infuriating the poor inspector by insulting the skill with which he practiced detective work.

I entered downstairs and stepped hurriedly past an equally worried Mrs. Hudson. Holmes's housekeeper lives in fear that one of Holmes's tempers may result in disasters unimaginable to her orderly mind (a fear justified by the dangerous chemicals that Holmes continues to work with, and compounded by his insistence upon being armed at nearly all times).

"Oh, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson mumbled upon seeing me. "Thank goodness. Mr. Holmes is greatly angering the good Inspector. I shouldn't be at all surprised if Mr. Lestrade pulled a gun on him for his snark."

I was forced to concede. From upstairs I could hear a bark of harsh laughter from Holmes, and an incensed shout from Lestrade in return. I bade Mrs. Hudson to worry herself no further and continued up to the rooms which I had shared with Holmes for the three years before my marriage to Mary. As I prepared to knock, there was the sound of feet stomping my way and the door burst open.

"Inspector Lestrade," said I, tipping my hat to the policeman. His face was a color usually only found in figs and beets, and, noting the twitch of his eye as he passed me, I designed not to open my mouth further until he had exited the premises.

As I followed the Inspector's path down the stairs and out of the house with my eyes, I heard a chuckling from behind me. I turned to see my friend facing the window, his frame shaking with laughter. Presently, he noticed be and bade me enter.

"Watson, it is a good thing to have you here. I fear that a great injustice has been done, and it must be our responsibility to correct it."

I entered, removing my hat and glancing around. Holmes's apartment was in its usual state of disrepair, and a large number of papers and files were scattered about the room, indicating that my companion had been at work on a case. I studied the detective, looking for the signs of exhaustion that usually found their way onto the man's face when he had been working for days at some problem. He seemed more or less as usual, perhaps a tad thinner than I remembered him, but clean-shaven and without bags beneath his eyes. I wondered as to the cause of his laughter—had he not been furious a moment or two ago?

"Pray tell what the meaning of your exchange with our friend Inspector Lestrade was."

Holmes smiled, and bade me sit, before noticing that all of his chairs were occupied with either papers or suspicious-looking bottles of liquids. He quickly picked up a large, yellowing folder off the armchair and cast it onto his desk. I made myself comfortable in the available space as he found a spot on the settee. He offered me a pipe, but I declined. He lit it for himself as he began to speak.

"Doctor, as you may have realized, it has been roughly nineteen days since we last saw one another. As per usual, I must at all times be immersed in problems. After the incident with the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I immediately embarked on an investigation that had been abandoned by members of the London Police. The case was singular in its curiosity, and I would have contacted you for your help had I not felt that it might present undue danger and excitement into your life as a… contented married man."

I pressed my lips together at this reference to a previous argument between Holmes and myself. Disapproving of women in general, Holmes acts faintly superior whenever Mary enters into our conversation, a fact that I find rather annoying but not intolerable—after all, I value our companionship as much as he, and can understand his resentment that I should see him less due to my relationship with Mary. Thus I did not rise to his bait and instead bade him inform me on the nature of the case.

At this, Holmes smiled ruefully.

"As expected, the police had given up on it rather prematurely. All of the evidence was of course still accessible. Yet because of its connection to the higher-up families of London, our dear friends at Scotland Yard thought it best to let the matter drop. You have, I assume, heard of the illustrious Graham family?"

I frowned. Such a name was vaguely familiar to me, and I said so.

"Indeed. They are, I calculate, the thirteenth-wealthiest family in all of London—quite wealthy enough to ensure that their names and information on their fortune remains entirely out of the papers and out of the public eye. Their fortune is derived from trade—they own, as I understand it, quite a few boats which travel a circuit from China 'round India and to Britain. The ships carry German silver to the Chinese ports, along with—less publicly of course—opium, which they trade for luxuries such as tea, spices and silk. The head of the family is one Andrew Graham. He and his wife have four grown children, one of whom lives in France. The other three, the eldest son and the two daughters, still reside in private residences in London. Their names are Estarr Graham (married now, however, to a mister Randolph Lett) Candice Graham and Wancuster Graham. As I understand it, Wancuster is set to take over the family business."

I considered this information, before it occurred to me that the Graham family was in fact familiar to me. I started, and dug momentarily in my pockets before extracting a silver cigar case which I had treasured for some time since acquiring it during my service in Afghanistan. Imprinted with a company seal, I hadn't given much thought to its design in the past. But now, squinting, I felt sure that the small letters inside the crest spelled "Graham". I showed it to Holmes, and he nodded.

"Some trade with other European countries is, of course, to be expected. That cigar box was made roughly fifteen years ago, out of silver that likely was imported to Afghanistan from China, and to China from Germany. You notice that the manufacturer's name—see that foreign writing here—is also imprinted upon your box, marking the maker of the box itself: probably an Afghan or Indian craftsman. As is apparent, the Graham influence extends the world over."

"How on earth could such a family not be in the public eye? What is your business with them? Surely no great scandal could occur without the knowledge of the British government or other tradesmen."

Sherlock sighed and rose.

"Good doctor. I am sure you are very good to put such faith in the British system of government and its people. However, I must insist that our people are as greedy as any others, and papers can easily be bribed to keep quiet. In addition, I have reason to believe that the Scotland Yard was recently paid a large sum of money not to investigate the Graham case."

I pressed my lips together in order to hide my irritation.

"And what case would that be, Holmes?"

"Ah, I am terribly sorry. To put it simply, the Graham family has a number of competitors in their business, most of whom reside in the immediate area. One such family, the Burrs, has been at odds with the Grahams for many decades. Suspicion duly fell on the Graham family when, rather recently, the newly knighted Anthony Burr was found murdered in the loo of an illustrious restaurant. Forty-six stab wounds to the chest: not a pretty picture, I am sure."

I frowned. "Are you implying that the Grahams orchestrated this? And that, even with the defined rivalry between the two families, the police made no connection?"

Sherlock guffawed and then coughed tobacco smoke. "They made the connection," he finally said raggedly. "They made the connection with eight thousand guineas, more than half of which went straght from the Graham bank into the seargants' pockets—thus, it is obvious that there should be no formal police report forthcoming."

"Are you certain that the Graham family was responsible for the murder, then?"

"Oh, quite certain," replied Holmes suggestively. "I have made the neccesary research trips—made them right away—and have concluded that the Grahams hired an assassin some weeks ago in order to do away with Sir Burr. I have, in fact, the papers marking the transaction between one Mr. Wrench and Andrew Graham, for the purpose of "elimination of A. Burr", obviously refferring to an assassination, see here—" he seized up the yellow file and rifled through it, pulling out a sheet of paper and gesturing sharply at a line of text near the middle of the page.

Examining the clear penmanship, I started up. "Holmes, if you have gotten these papers then the case is surely closed!"

"Not so. There is no signature on this sheet, and thus Lestrade refused to accept it. He of course knows nothing of the higher-ups in his organization being bribed… and he is very skeptical of my methods. I am sure he assumes fogery."

I sank back down.

"If I am to believe that it is as you say, and the murder—this scandal—is the fault of Andrew Graham, we must see that the Burr family is able to file a lawsuit against them, to prosecute—you could use that paper, it might be of some help…" I trailed off as Sherlock Holmes shook his head at me.

"Really, my dear. Your naivete never fails to impress and comfort me. No, you are assuming that the Graham family is the only suspect in this, and that there is no other possibility—this, I am afraid, cannot be assumed, and it makes matters much more complicated."

"What are you saying!"

"Timothy Burr, the son of Anthony, was in line to receive the business, being the oldest son. However, upon my researches, he was revealed to have quarreled with his father a few days before his death, and his father threatened to disown him."

I struggled to keep up with Holmes's train of thought, but without the facts in front of me could not fathom his mind's workings.

"This exchange, by some coincidence—or not, perhaps—occurred at the restaurant that poor Sir Burr was later found dead in. This incriminates the boy, and allows the police to deny the involvement of the Grahams. Perhaps, they say, the boy sought to eliminate his father before he changed his will."

"Is it possible that such dastardly business could take place within a family?"

"Business is dastardly by nature, John." Holmes set down his pipe and rose, seizing a coat off the mantelpeice and donning it. "The police further argued that Timothy's ebony hair had been found clutched in his father's hands, as if in a desperate bid for life he had tried to pull his killer off of him by his locks."

"But—that hair could truly belong to anyone!"

"Of course. But not many people will be scrutinizing the police. Besides, the hair could truly belong to Burr's son—there is no way of determining this for sure."

"Have you seen this so-called 'evidence'?" I put on my hat as I followed Sherlock, who was now walking calmly toward the stair.

"Yes. In fact, the hair looks not so much black as dark. It could easily be brown—which brings me to our next suspect." We descended the stairs and walked out onto the street. "A member of the Graham family who in fact is some friend of mine."


	2. Chapter 2

As we moved haltingly through the crowded street toward the corner, I felt compelled to speak to Holmes about something that had bothered me for some time.

"Why is it," I asked, as he hailed a Hansom cab, "that whenever you set off in pursuit of a case, I am inevitably present? I would think that especially now, what with my move to the opposite side of the city, you would find a few problems to work on that did not necessitate my accompaniment." As I spoke, I struggled to keep up with Holmes, whose lengthy stride had him ten paces ahead.

A horse-drawn cab pulled up, and Holmes gave him directions. We climbed inside the vehicle before he replied.

"My dear Watson," he said. "If you do not wish to come along, nobody is going to force you otherwise. I simply assumed that you would be interested, given that you seemed to enjoy writing those records of my puzzles that you have published in the past." He smoothed his coat as we set off along the cobblestoned streets.

"Indeed I am, to be sure," I said. "I didn't mean to imply that it was your fault, I just, ah. I was pointing out a fact that I had but noticed. Anyway," I changed the subject, "Who is this Graham that you are taking me to see? A member of the main house?"

Sherlock leaned out of the window suddenly as I spoke, craning his neck around to look at the cabby. He withdrew quickly back into the cab, lowered his voice, and intoned sharply, "Do not speak so easily of the rich, Watson. There are many in London who are not so intently righteous as you, and who may take a mention of any sum of money as a cue to slit one's throat." His dark eyebrows furled, casting his upper face into shadow.

I shut my mouth a tad disagreeably. Holmes was often curt and, on more than a few occasions, he had behaved in a way that bespoke paranoia. I had learned that this was usually for good reason, but as of that moment it seemed like an excuse.

"I apologize," I said quietly and more sharply than I might've. "Pray tell whenever it strikes your fancy, then. Let's make sure that we are first in a place out of the earshot of any innocent cabdrivers—no, the whole human race. Antarctica, perhaps."

Sherlock sniffed and leaned back (as much as he could, with the hard wooden seats). "Have I offended you, Watson?"

"Not at all."

"The fellow I am taking you to see is Wancuster Graham, whom I mentioned earlier—heir, as I said, to the family's business. Please do not gasp so," he added, as I took a breath. "My line of work allows me to contact, however indirectly, many members of every level of society. In any case, Wancuster has been an acquaintance since my days as a young scholar of the sciences. He was educated at Eton, of course, and given the richest and best education money could buy, whereas my education is an amalgam of particular courses, taken in several schools. However, both of us frequented the British Museum often in the course of our research. We came to a sort of—well, not a brotherhood. Perhaps an understanding. We were both fond of the opera."

I tried to picture Holmes as a young man, discussing the old masterworks or visiting the theater with an Eton blueblood. It was, needless to say difficult. Holmes has never been one to sit comfortably in cultured society. I had met Holmes when he was just twenty-seven, but even then he carried a decidedly middle-aged roughness, a sharp-edged, fierce demeanor that seemed the polar opposite of any dandy's whims or foppish enthusiasm. It was true, though, that he had a passion for the opera and for the violin. I wondered if Wancuster had been the one to encourage him in one pursuit or the other. The thought made me cringe inwardly.

I was always interested to learn more about my comrade's past, but admittedly, the prospect of his having a confidante that I did not know about made me uncomfortable. I felt sure that if Holmes was still regularly visiting with this man I would have known—unless there was a particular reason to keep it secretive. I could only begin to imagine what that reason might be, and the fact that Holmes was visiting Graham in the pursuit of a murderer made me more cautious still.

As we passed Hyde Park, there issued a commotion from outside our cab. I looked out to see an overturned carriage. It had toppled on one of the horse's feet, and the screaming animal had become something of an attraction to the poor peddling their wares in the area. The poor waifs with baskets of rotten watercress dropped their buckets of produce and scampered about the scene, shrieking, while two policemen trained their revolvers on the injured beast, waiting for an order to shoot. Gentlemen passing by crossed the busy street in order to avoid the stinking, repulsive spectacle. It was unclear from where I was what had happened to the occupants of the cab, or even what sort of carriage it was, but as the cabby swerved into another lane, Holmes leapt up with an oath and bent over me to crane out the window at the wreckage.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn," he hissed. He sat back in his seat for a moment and placed the second and third fingers of each hand on his temples. He closed his eyes for a second, and then snapped them open with a glare. It was clear at once to me that there was something significant about the spectacle that he had perceived where I hadn't. As he yelled to the cabby to pull over, I tried to imagine what it could be. It was certainly a fantastic scene, but carriage wrecks in London were not too uncommon. It was incredible to think that the wreckage could have anything to do with him or the Graham case, though I figured that this could be the only thing to make him lose his temper so quickly.

As we walked back toward the scene, threading between muslin-clad matrons and peddlers of luridly colored sweets, it became apparent to me that the carriage had contained a number of human passengers—several were still trapped underneath the vehicle, and two good Samaritans were attempting to free them. One well-dressed young man, standing and yelling a dozen or so feet from the accident, was cradling one horribly twisted arm with his good hand, blood running from a wound on his leg and pooling on his shoes. Holmes stood still, surveyed the scene. His eyes gravitated to the wounded man and studied him closely, his glance penetrating and meticulous. His lips pressed together in a tight line.

The horse was still flailing. It had been shot twice by police, but they had been poor shots. The unfortunate brown beast was in its final throes of agony, and was frothing at the mouth. Its movements threatened to upend the carriage further and crush the people beneath it. Holmes drew his weapon, approached the dying animal, and shot it once in the head. Immediately, the movements stopped, and the creature collapsed into itself as it ceased to breathe. Holmes placed the smoking firearm back in its holster and stood sedately behind the police, who both seemed to think (at least for a moment) that the other had been the one to fire the shot. Holmes eventually made a small noise in his throat, which was evidently enough to attract the officers' attention. He tipped his hat to them, and immediately opened his mouth to ask questions.

"What happened here? I just passed by and couldn't help but see it. Is that the Graham family logo on the carriage door? Yes, I understand that you aren't at liberty to discuss the inhabitants of the carriage at this time, but perhaps you could make an exception. My companion is a doctor, and I am a consulting detective, by the name of Holmes…"

I strode over to the wounded man, who was beginning to appear faint from his injuries.

"May I take a look? I'm a doctor," I said. "That was a nasty crash."

"Sir, I'd rather you not—I have my own doctor, sir I'll see him as soon as…" He trailed off as I looked pointedly down at his leg, where the gash had leaked red down onto the cracked paving stones.

"I'd say you're lucky to get off with such little injury, but you wouldn't thank me for that. I hope not to trivialize your pain," I continued, "…though your arm, at least, looks to be not too badly broken."

As I heard Holmes's voice raising as he discussed the events of the crash with the two panicking policemen, the wounded man hissed thinly through the pain.

"It's as you say. I'm lucky, and I fear my family isn't as such."

I swallowed dryly. "I'm afraid that I can't help them right now. I'll certainly try to help with what I can…"

The man was not as young as he had first appeared—his eyes were bagged and weary. He averted his gaze as he muttered quietly, perhaps to himself. I could barely hear him over the din of the crowd, but I caught the tail end of his statement.

"…our family shall be brought to ruin…the bastard Moriarty has no shame or scruple."


End file.
